Eve

by Beverley Hughesdon

  I went over to the farlin and picked up my knife. Mairi said, ‘Eve – how could you have done that to the poor gentleman – all over his lovely waistcoat—’ Mairi – the other person who hadn’t laughed.

  I shrugged. ‘It serves him right.’

  Then Bridget – oh yes, she’d not gone back to her barrel yet – Bridget was still here, gloating over my humiliation – and she said to me, ‘Serves you right, you mean. Perhaps you’ll behave yourself in future, now.’

  That stiffened my resolve. I shrugged again. ‘He didn’t hurt. Not like the water ghillie up the Helspie river. He can really hit – but that fellow – I could hardly feel him touch me.’

  Mairi said, ‘He’s a gentleman. He didn’t intend to hurt you.’

  I made my last attempt at brashness. ‘Then there was no point in him doing it, was there?’

  Bridget’s reply was loud and clear. ‘He did it, Eve, to make you look a fool – and he certainly succeeded.’ Drawing herself up to her full height she delivered her verdict. ‘For once, Eve Gunn, you got exactly what you deserved.’

  Morag from Stornoway giggled. Bitch.

  * * *

  Scarborough was finished for me after that. I moved to the other side of Mairi and kept my head down in the farlin – but I couldn’t close my ears. it seemed as it every time someone passed by, or we ran with our baskets to the rousing tubs, a voice would call out, ‘Got your little bottie smacked, did you Eve?’ or, ‘That gentleman put you over his knee again today, has he?’

  And all the urchins and errand boys brought along their friends who’d missed the show to point me out to them, ‘That’s the one – she didn’t half run – but he were faster!’ ‘’E caught her good and proper, he did!’ The reply was usually a hopeful, ‘P’raps ’e’ll come back and do it again.’

  He didn’t come back, I was spared that, at least. How could he have done it – in front of the whole fish pier – how could he? And he’d looked so pleased with himself as he’d tipped me back on to my feet. And then, that dismissive comment of his to Mr Mackay, referring to me as a vixen who’d simply given him a run – as if I wasn’t even a person.

  Mairi, who’d heard that exchange, rubbed salt in my wounds over supper that evening by saying, ‘You were very lucky, Eve, that gentleman being so generous – after the state his clothes were in.’ Lucky! She went on, ‘You should at least have offered him his tip back.’

  ‘No!’

  For once Bridget agreed with me. ‘She had turned the cartwheels for him, Mairi, fair’s fair.’

  Mairi still wasn’t happy. ‘If only you weren’t always playing games, Eve—’

  Not any longer, I wasn’t.

  Thank goodness Jeannie arrived the following week. I was so relieved to see her I could have kissed her feet in gratitude – until she said, ‘Well, well, Eve – what’s all this about you getting your bottom smacked in front of the whole fish pier?’ Oh, stupid, stupid Eve – I’d completely forgotten about the postal service. They’d all written about it in their letters home. Now Jeannie went on, ‘I couldn’t wait to tell Ewan – he fell right off his chair, he was laughing so much. And Dancie Gordon, he said—’

  Desperately I butted in, ‘It’s not all round Helspie, is it?’

  Jeannie laughed. ‘Helspie! It’s all round Wick by now – be in the “John O’ Groat Journal” this week, I shouldn’t wonder. Ewan said your little tale’s really put the opening of the high school in the shade. Anyway, you can go back and tell them all about it yourself, now. My finger’s as good as new, so I’ll be taking your place at the farlin tomorrow.’

  That evening as I packed my trunk, all lcould think of was that I was the laughing stock of Caithness – and early next morning as I said goodbye to Mairi and Bridget I burst out, ‘They’ll all make fun of me when I get back!’

  Mairi sighed. ‘That’s the way of the world, Eve. Folk are like fowls – if you step out of line they’ll peck you.’ She patted my hand. ‘Never mind – I daresay they’ll soon find someone else to tease.’ She didn’t sound too sure, though. Then, ‘Anyway, you’ve been a big help to me and Bridget, hasn’t she Bridget?’

  Bridget looked up from her porridge, ‘Aye – but she’s been a big nuisance, too.’

  Mairi was sharp with her. ‘Nobody’s perfect, Bridget – not even you. And how do we know how any of us would have behaved at her age if we’d not had our mams to pull us into line?’

  I flushed, ‘I had my Apa.’

  ‘Aye – but he’s gone now. And your aunt, she let you run wild those last years, so there’s been nobody to care what you got up to – or to pull you up if you didn’t behave yourself.’

  Bridget said, ‘Except that big gentleman – he pulled her up, alright.’

  I exclaimed, ‘He should never have said I stank of fish!’

  Bridget, stolid as ever, replied, ‘But you did stink of fish, Eve – we all do, that’s being at the gutting for you, isn’t it?’

  Well, I wasn’t at the gutting any longer.

  I set off for the station, our landlady’s son walking along beside me, pushing my trunk on a handcart. When we arrived I told him, ‘Ye wait here with the luggage, Jim, while I go and get ma ticket.’

  There was a queue at the booking office; I stood waiting my turn, remembering Jeannie saying, ‘Be in the “John O’ Groat Journal” this week, I shouldn’t wonder-’ l94

  The man in front of me reached the window, put down his money and said, ‘London – Third Class, one way.’

  My turn. ‘Third Class, one way.’

  ‘Where to, Miss?’

  Seize the lamp, Eve. ‘London,’ I said.

  Chapter Twenty One

  As the train pulled out of Scarborough I decided I’d have a week’s holiday in London, and see the sights. Surely by then everyone in Wick and Helspie would have forgotten about my involvement in that minor incident on the fish pier? I’d decided that was how I’d play it, when I did eventually return – a herring slipping from my hand had unfortunately collided with the chest of a spectator – they will insist on gawping at busy fishergirls there, nothing better to do with their time – and if people do have outsize chests, well, what do they expect? The chase round the fish pier? Just a joke, a game – he didn’t really spank me, simply pretended – it was all good clean fun.

  Which is not to say that I’d forgiven Horseface for the humiliation he’d inflicted on me, I certainly had not – but there was no need to admit to that humiliation. After all, a humiliation denied is a humiliation considerably lessened. So, as far as the world was concerned, all a joke. But if I ever saw him again…

  Reluctantly I admitted that my opportunities for revenge were likely to be limited in that direction, in the absence of a nobs’ cricket festival in Wick.

  Ah yes, Wick. Return to which was being delayed by yet another week – well, since I was overdue in any case, one could argue that it was only prudent to economize on excuses. I’d have plenty of time on the journey back to think of a really good one. In the meantime, I would attend to my false trail as soon as I reached London. I put my hand to my head – where, because of Jeannie’s arrival my plaits hung free. I was also wearing my own weekday skirt, which swung comfortably at mid-calf length – but, needs must. The minute I arrived in London I’d buy a proper full-length skirt for everyday wear, and stab those wretched hairpins into my scalp once more. This holiday would not be taken by Evelyn Courtney of barely seventeen, but by Scots-accent speaking Eve Gunn, aged – ? Well, nineteen would do nicely.

  The question of money, you ask? True, herring gutters aren’t paid for their work until the earnings of the whole crew are totted up at the end of the season and divided into three – but fortunately Mairi had had something of a conscience over that one. So she’d performed various calculations the night before I’d left in order to estimate what I was owed, and then handed over to me the savings we’d made on the five shillings a week living allowance the curers paid us, together with her own arl
es of a pound – Jeannie had spent hers/mine on her train fare to Scarborough, since the curer only paid fares when we all moved in a group.

  And then there had been those tips. Mairi had said to Bridget, ‘I really think we should pay Eve for her work now, so—’ Bridget had rather reluctantly handed back her own share of the gold and silver, and Mairi’s calculations had been brought to a successful conclusion. Added to what still remained of Mr Henderson’s allowance I now had in my pocket enough for a decent holiday as well as my train fare back to Wick at the end of it.

  And there was a definite, though slightly sour, satisfaction in the thought that between them Mr Henderson and Horseface were paying for my extended truancy. Horseface, how could he have done it – and after he’d been so friendly? Don’t think, Eve – just get on and enjoy your holiday.

  And don’t think either about what Mairi said this morning. But it was true, there was no-one left now who really cared what I said or did, or where I went, no-one at all – and the clicking wheels of the train seemed to pick up the rhythm of my thoughts: ‘No-one cares – no-one cares – no-one cares…’

  I simply couldn’t stop thinking about that one – quick, Eve – look at it the other way up. Aunt Ethel used to say that, ‘Turn the coin over and look at the opposite side.’ My hand in my pocket found a half-crown – one of Horseface’s I suppose – and on one side it says, ‘You’ve got no-one to care what happens to you,’ but if you flip it over – my fingers did just that – then on the other side it says, ‘So you can do exactly as you please.’ And that’s what I was doing – beginning with going to London to see the sights. And as we crossed the points the wheels clicked out of their old rhythm and on into a new one of: ‘See the sights, see the sights – see the sights—’ And with every turn of those wheels my excitement mounted.

  I admit that my courage did initially falter a moment at King’s Cross. When I arrived to all the noise and bustle of a large railway station I stood amidst the hiss of steam, the smell of smoke, the screech of whistles – and remembered India. But where were the cries of the pani sellers, the rich scents of sweat and spicey food, the colours – and where, oh where, was Apa?

  Then I told myself firmly, ‘You can do it, Eve – you’re in charge of your own life now. So you can choose to do whatever you want, however you want.’

  ‘Porter, miss?’

  ‘Aye, I’ve a trunk with me.’ We set off for the guards van.

  At the left luggage office I tipped the porter 3d and fended off the man behind the counter while I searched my trunk for a nightgown and spare pairs of knickers. Once these were safely stored in my kari I pushed the trunk across to him for labelling. ‘A week, please.’

  Next, the ladies’ cloakroom, where I reinstated my gutting bun, and then, on the advice of the attendant, set off down Westbourne Grove to Whiteley’s department store. Taking a deep breath I plunged into the huge be-windowed emporium – and came out again wearing a new pair of unholed black cotton stockings (1s 8d) and a plain, full-length navy blue serge skirt (5s 11½d).

  Clad in my new status I set off to inspect Buckingham Palace before finding somewhere to stay for my holiday in London. Palace duly inspected I spotted a respectable-looking temperance hotel near Victoria and marched inside to inquire about their weekly terms. ‘Thirty-eight shillings for a single room,’ the clerk announced, ‘And as many baths as you want. Meat breakfast and meat tea included.’ I closed on the deal and he pushed pen and register across the counter. Dipping my nib in the inkwell I wrote firmly, ‘Eve Gunn’.

  Next move, false trail. On two plain postcards I wrote two identical messages: ‘Am taking a short holiday. Returning next Wednesday. Eve.’ After addressing one to Mrs Sinclair at Wick and the other to Mistress McNiven at Helspie I hared round the corner to Victoria station and found a guard, who promised to post them for me when he arrived at his destination. As an afterthought I asked, ‘And where are ye away tae?’

  ‘Dover.’

  Even better – with luck they’d all think I’d gone to France for the week.

  * * *

  I’ll never forget the sheer joy of those first hours in London; it was the start of a love affair. Like all love affairs, London and I have had our ups and downs since – but as in any sound, long-lasting romance the bond is always there, even when you hate each other.

  Good old smelly, dirty, noisy London. That first day I wandered round in a happy daze – just looking, listening, smelling, touching – yes, it really was a love affair.

  I returned to the hotel for my meat tea, and then was off out again. London was even more fetching in the evening. I walked for miles. Over to Ludgate Hill to admire St Paul’s: ‘This magnificant and colossal edifice took thirty-five years to build’; up Threadneedle street to view the huge bulk of the Bank of England: ‘guarded every night by the military’ – yes, my reading of this section of Randall’s Reference Book was coming in handy at last.

  But when I reached the Tower of London I forgot about real life and remembered only Gilbert and Sullivan – for this was the setting of Apa’s favourite ‘Yeoman of the Guard’. Here, brave Phoebe Meryll – a mezzo, like me – saved the life of Colonel Fairfax – who most ungratefully then fell in love with Elsie, the feeble soprano. Standing in the shadow of that ‘grim old fortalice’ I sang the very same song that Phoebe sang to distract Wilfred Shadbolt as she stole the vital keys,

  ‘Were I thy bride,

  Then all the world beside

  Were not too wide

  To hold my wealth of love –

  Were I thy bride!’

  Yes, I’d fallen in love with London alright. But the first wrinkle in the bedsheet occurred that evening. I found my way back along the river, the ever-changing, ever-fascinating, magical Thames. At Westminster I stopped to stare up at the Houses of Parliament – seat not just of the government of Britain, but of India, too. Here was the Sirkar itself – I was standing at the heart of the Empire, at the very hub of the world. I moved on to Westminster Bridge to get a better view, and while I lingered there a policeman came past. He paused, saying, ‘Now, young lady, it’s past eleven o’clock – time you were getting home.’

  Home.

  I went back to the hotel. A hotel, not a home. It was all very well reversing the coin – but the truth was, I had no home now. I hadn’t truly had one since Aunt Ethel died. It was a bad time, that. If I’d gone to bed I might not have been able to stop from myself crying, so instead I stood at the window, looking out.

  Luckily there was a coffee stall opposite, so I was able to focus on its comings and goings. Cab drivers, down-and-outs cadging the price of a slice of bread, workmen in caps and mufflers – and then a man in a top hat came in sight. He was taller than the other men, and his walk was faster and more confident. With silver-topped cane under one arm and opera cloak swinging from his shoulders he strode up to the counter – and the others drew back. Because the newcomer was a Brahmin, a man of a higher caste. A man like Horseface.

  Horseface – oh, how dared he do what he did! Don’t even think of him, Eve – but with thinking came anger, so much warmer and stronger than despair. So I did think of him: as an idle, cricket-playing member of the unproductive upper-class, with its set-apart dress and manner and bearing –

  And that’s when I had the idea – the most brilliant of ideas. I would follow in my grandmother’s footsteps and become an ethnologist. But whereas Fanny Gunn had gone to practise her observational skills in places like Africa, or China, I, for the time being at any rate, would study the economy and tribal rituals of the inhabitants of London. Exit Eve, homeless herring gutter; enter, Eve Gunn – explorer and ethnologist. I could hardly wait to start playing my new role.

  I slept soundly, did full justice to my meat breakfast the next morning, and then set out to study the economy of London. I was, as you’ll have realised, somewhat better qualified for this than for the tribal rituals, since I had studied my Watt far more thoroughly than my Fanny Gunn. I
n fact, the truth is, I still hadn’t read more than the first three pages of my grandmother’s ‘Variety and Diversity in Humankind’.

  However, those first three pages had fortunately covered the Introduction, and I could distinctly remember her writing that the first rule for an ethnologist studying a new tribe was to be as inconspicuous as possible – so I went out and bought a hat. Everyone else seemed to be wearing a hat in London, so in my new navy tam o’ shanter (price 1s 3d) I should fade nicely into the background.

  Which was more than Fanny Gunn could ever have done, since according to Aunt Ethel my grandmother had been nearly six foot tall, broad-shouldered and with a flaming head of bright ginger hair. Still, perhaps she was a good actress.

  Her second rule was that one shouldn’t reach any conclusions until a full observation had taken place; so I decided to spend the next three days simply looking and listening, and then arrive at my conclusions over the weekend.

  I tramped for miles that day. Luckily my meat breakfast was very sustaining, and London being as well-provided with drinking fountains as it is with horse troughs I did not go thirsty – though I scorned the little metal cups on chains, preferring to drink out of my hands, in the Indian fashion. By the time I got back for my meat tea (congratulating myself on having picked a hotel near Victoria Station – it made things much easier when it came to asking directions) I felt extremely pleased with myself. And the curious thing is, that although I would probably have spent the day in exactly the same way without last night’s decision I don’t think I would have enjoyed it nearly as much. As Apa used to say, ‘It’s not so much what you do, as the spirit in which you do it.’ (He often said this when l was moaning about maths lessons. I had not been convinced on that score – but, it’s curious how circumstances can change one’s mind…)